


Cut to the Feeling

by burnt_oranges



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, F/F, Triwizard Tournament, harrowhark as potions professor, harrowhark pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:20:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24331981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burnt_oranges/pseuds/burnt_oranges
Summary: In which Gideon Nav returns to Hogwarts as hot quidditch professor, and Harrowhark Nonagesimus does not know how to deal with her feelings.
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 24
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> spoilers for everything!
> 
> if you haven't read the first act of the second novel, john is god of the first house and mercy is the imperial saint of joy, also of the first house. also cytherea is not evil. this is all finished, i'm just editing.

John—once-God of the wizarding world, now headmaster to a bunch of unruly, magically inept children—has the bad taste to sigh in the middle of one of Mercy’s rants. Which—well, if he’s being frank, he has probably heard them all anyway, as they always regard the Aurors and whether they are a) incompetent, b) insubordinate, or c) both.

“John!! That is so unspeakably rude—”

“Mercy, will you please take three steps to the right,” he says.

“This is very stupid,” Mercy says, even as she’s doing it.

“I think this will be worth your while,” he says because Mercy would never admit it in ten thousand years, but she is an incurable gossip. Mercy narrows her eyes at him to say, if it isn’t, someone that _shall remain nameless_ will be getting frogs in his bed just like when they were students--or something to that effect, John is always a little rusty at translation when he hasn’t seen Mercy for at least five years.

Harrowhark Nonagesimus marches into his office without even bothering to knock, the door swinging hard into the space where Mercy had just been standing.

Mercy gasps in both real and affected outrage.

“You—you—,” Harrow says, mouth opening and closing, the only part of her face that moves. He can sense the moment Mercy zeroes in on Harrow’s deeply compressed rage like a cat targeting a canary. 

“Yes, Harrow?” John says, steepling his fingers on his desk.

Harrow sucks in a sharp breath through her nose, and her entire body stills. “Headmaster,” she snaps. “You neglected to inform me that _Gideon Nav_ would be returning to Hogwarts.” She pauses, presumably for dramatic effect. “And that she would be doing so as a _professor_.”

“Ah,” John says.

Harrowhark holds out for a full three minutes, as they stare at each other unblinking, Mercy awarding points on a scrap of paper from where she perches on his desk. “Well?” Harrow says, finally.

John leans back in his chair, blinks. “Well, in light of the fact that she graduated ten years ago," he says, "she certainly wouldn't be returning as a student."

“Headmaster,” Harrow barks, and Mercy puts her hands on her hips and says, “Do you not know how to speak to your betters?? Do you not know who your betters _are_ —”

“Mercy,” John says, and Mercy subsides. “Harrow, yes, Gideon is our new quidditch professor. Considering her background as beater for the Holyhead Harpies, I expect she will be very qualified.”

Harrow’s mouth opens and closes again. John waits. “You did not tell me,” she says stiffly.

“I wasn’t aware you wanted to be informed,” John lies, blinking again. Cythera calls it his adorably dumb sheep look. He can see Mercy gleefully calling him a liar with her entire face. She loves it when he lies for god knows what reason.

Perhaps it’s uncharitable to act like he doesn’t remember the ridiculous number of volumes dedicated to Harrow’s personal damage regarding Gideon Nav. But it _is_ entertaining. In addition, forcing Harrow to say exactly what she means for once in her severely emotionally constipated life can only be therapeutic. He really doesn’t want to be dragged into this. Well. Again.

Mercy’s narrowed eyes and smirk say that if he didn’t want to be dragged into this, he shouldn’t have invited Gideon Nav to be within spitting (and murdering) distance of Harrowhark Nonagesimus. To that, he says: fair.

Harrow glares at him with glittering black eyes and a mouth as rigid as bone. “I never said I _wanted_ to be informed, I am merely _surprised_ you did not do so.”

John supposes this indicates that emotionally healthy communication and vulnerability from Harrowhark Nonagesimus will not be happening anytime soon. Mercy silently mouths _wow_. “And you felt the need to express this surprise to me because…?” he says, raising his brows.

Harrow stiffens even further without somehow actually cracking into pieces. “It is policy to let the staff know when there is a new faculty member.”

“As you know, the staff is always informed of new faculty at the staff meeting the week before school begins,” John says. He strokes his chin in consideration. “Although perhaps I am doing you a disservice—perhaps in assuming the infallibility of your mind, I neglected to consider that you too are capable of forgetting information, including long-held protocols—perhaps I myself should do well to remember that all of our memories are imperfect, that you are not an exception—”

“I _get_ your point, Headmaster,” Harrow says through gritted teeth. John seriously worries for her dental health. Just because you _can_ replace every bone in your body doesn’t mean you should be careless.

“Good,” John says even though he knows she doesn’t. Harrow lives her life as a tightly wound spring with no release, and John knows she sees any loss of control as an egregious weakness. He wonders if she knows that the lack of flexibility is why she breaks so easily. “Will that be all?”

“That will be all,” Harrow says, visibly grinding her teeth now. She sweeps from the room like a bat, albeit a short and very bony one.

“Little heavy-handed, weren’t you,” Mercy comments because of course she remembers John’s letters of complaint from when Harrow and Gideon were students and constantly and actively trying to kill one another. She hops off his desk. “Well, I ought to go find my rooms,” she says, literally rubbing her hands together in evil delight.

“Mercy, you can’t possibly be staying,” he says, horrified.

“Cytherea and Augustine should be here tomorrow,” she chirps and then she’s out the door.

“Mercy, get back here!” he yells even though he knows she’s long gone to terrorize the house elves and then he sighs because he’s looked down to find Mercy’s score-keeping—Mercy is winning, of course, with John a close second. There’s a rude drawing of John off to the side because she thinks he gets too uppity without regular put-downs.

“God help me,” he says to himself and then remembers that for all intents and purposes, he _is_ god, so he unilaterally decides it is time to get absolutely blotto at The Hog’s Head.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter numbers will change as i figure out...how i want to organize it

“I am delighted to announce that Gideon Nav will be our new quidditch professor,” the headmaster says brightly.

Gideon Nav herself is sprawled in the chair next to him—one arm draped over the back—robe hanging open to reveal an enormously tight, ripped band t-shirt that Harrow knew for a fact she had owned since she was thirteen. Her hideous sunglasses are perched on her head, and she looks around at the staff members with bright, golden eyes that glow with interest.

“Excited to be here,” Nav says, grinning like she’s at a magazine shoot or whatever it is she got up to that required this amount of blinding charisma.

Harrowhark seethes.

“As most of you know, Gideon has played the position of beater for the Holyhead Harpies for almost ten years,” the headmaster continues, and Harrow grits her teeth to avoid even an insinuation of a facial expression. “So we are especially thrilled to welcome her as our new quidditch professor.”

Cytherea whistles. “How tremendously over-qualified of you,” she says, looking up through her lashes at Nav with heinously blue eyes. Nav develops a light and becoming flush.

Harrow does not know why Cytherea even has to be here.

Mercy has inexplicable and dogmatic motivations, and Augustine follows after them even though Mercy throws a perplexing shitfit every time she sees Augustine. Harrow had been under Cytherea’s command during the war against Tom Riddle and had not enjoyed a singular second of the experience due to the obvious war-related reasons and also the truly relentless flirting Cytherea and Nav had engaged in. Cytherea was ten thousand years old and in a position of power and so should know better than to—

Harrow accidentally bites the tip of her tongue, tasting blood, because Sextus has kicked her in the ankle. _Teeth grinding_ he mouths when she glares at him. Harrow does not understand Sextus’ preoccupation with her dental health, especially considering she can replace her teeth at will, and frankly, his attempts to have her conform to sleeping and eating schedules are becoming intolerable.

“The other important order of business involves the Achtwizard Tournament,” the headmaster says, and Harrow becomes rigid in her seat. “This will be the first of many meetings in order to make sure the tournament runs smoothly.”

“Unlike the last time,” Ianthe drawls. The Lyctors look at Ianthe with predatory interest while everyone else looks away.

“Perspicacious, as always, Ianthe,” the headmaster says dryly.

Ianthe raises her eyebrows in false innocence. “I’m just translating for you, sir,” she says.

“I’m surprised it’s being held again at all,” Camilla says bluntly.

“The issue lies in how deeply symbolic the Achtwizard tournament is,” the headmaster says, sighing. “Symbols hold magical meaning, especially when reinforced with ten thousand years of tradition.”

The cavalier half of the staff—minus Magnus because he married a prodigious nerd—give him blank looks.

“It’s a spontaneous magical contract,” Abigail says, sitting up straight. “There have been many accounts of what happens when a culture with a wizarding population doesn’t—or isn’t--able to perform a sacred tradition. In addition, the longer the tradition has been observed, the more deeply rooted that contract is. For example, if traditional rain ceremony can’t be performed, a drought occurs until it is.”

“Ten points to Ravenclaw,” the headmaster says, smiling.

“Thank you, sir,” Abigail says cheekily.

“That’s kind of terrifying,” Nav observes.

“There is still much about the laws of magic that we do not understand,” the headmaster says, matter-of-fact. “All of you experienced what happened when the Achtwizard Tournament was interrupted. I don’t even want to imagine the consequences of not conducting the Achtwizard Tournament at all.”

There is a beat where everyone imagines just that.

“In any case,” the head master says loudly, “it is Hogwarts’ turn to host. Attendance of the events themselves are not compulsory, but all of you will be given assignments for setting up each of the seven tasks. The eighth task of becoming a full Lyctor will be elective for the students participating. Any questions?”

“The war is over, sir,” Sextus says, frowning. “With no need for new Lyctors, the eighth task would be highly morally questionable.”

“Fortunately, it is not the act of becoming a Lyctor that is essential to the ritual but the choice itself,” the headmaster says. “This is the way it has always been.”

“That’s right, Sextus, no more war atrocities,” Ianthe says, smirking aggressively.

“Take note, Ianthe,” Sextus says coldly.

“Enough,” the headmaster says. His pitch-black eyes seem to suck up all the light in the room, and he radiates a quietly oppressive power that reminds them all that before he was headmaster of Hogwarts, he was the Undying God of the Empire. “I understand that the tournament may bring up bad memories for some of you, but I will not tolerate fighting among staff. If mediation is needed, come to my office.”

“Yes, Headmaster,” they murmur.

“Very scary, John,” Cytherea says and gives a golf-clap.

“Thank you, Cytherea,” the headmaster says, long-suffering.

The rest of the staff meeting is innocuous, but Harrow still finds her nervous system winding itself up, electrical impulses of anxiety piling up in her stomach and chest. The Achtwizard Tournament is held once a decade, and the last time Nav— _Griddle_ —had performed a monstrously noble stunt to save Harrow’s life and got gutted by Tom Riddle’s sword in the process. Really, the fucking nerve of that moron, willing to die to save Harrow when she isn’t even worth it, when she already has so much blood on her hands that she can never repay, not in ten thousand years.

Nav hasn’t looked at her once the entire meeting, and Harrow can’t stand it.

When the meeting ends, Harrow strategically retreats to the greenhouse where she can spend several hours digging in the dirt. Magnus knows better than to bother her and after years of his training, she knows his planting system like she knows the organization of the vertebrae in her spine. She is harvesting moly for her experimental potions—meant for eventual usage at St. Mungo’s--when Sextus sits on the bench across from her.

“I thought I’d find you here,” he says with satisfaction, as if she is a particularly facile equation.

“Go away,” she says, doing him the great collegial courtesy of verbally responding instead of ignoring him.

“I just thought you’d want to know that after you ran away—”

“—s _trategically retreated_ —”

“—Gideon asked about you,” he says, serene.

Harrow feels she might actually spontaneously combust and keeps harvesting moly through sheer force of will and also spite. “So what,” she says. “I don’t care about Nav.”

Sextus’ eyebrows go to hide in his hair. “I don’t know how you got those words out of your mouth in that order without stroking out,” he says thoughtfully.

Harrow ignores him.

“Where’s Mr. Bony?” Sextus says.

“That is _not_ his name—” Harrow starts, when the little pterosaur traitor itself lands on Sextus’ shoulder and nuzzles his chin.

“Harrow, you refused to give him a name, so we were forced to decide by committee,” Sextus says sternly. “Once again, you should just be grateful that Gideon’s write-in ballot of _Boner-ific_ did not win.”

“And still, no one has informed me why she received a vote when she didn’t even live here,” Harrow points out. “That should be against the rules of the committee.”

“How would you know the rules of the committee when you won’t join the committee?” Sextus says.

The committee itself is made up of all the professors except Harrow and Ianthe because the committee only decides inane things like the name of Harrow’s lab-made greenhouse assistant.

“This is a useless conversation,” she informs him.

“Have it your way,” Sextus says cheerfully, petting her assistant’s bony skull. It starts to purr even though Harrow swore she had removed that charm a few days ago for probably the fifteenth time. It was a skeleton, it was not a pet, it was an employee, and it did not need to _purr_ , which the committee blatantly refuses to understand.

“What do I have to do to be able to work in peace, Sextus?” she says, even though she knows Sextus won’t leave until she’s asked about Gideon because he has the patience of a professional interrogator. It’s a shame that as a professor, Harrow has to masquerade as an emotionally stable adult and can no longer use the violent methods of her youth as a first-order solution to problems.

“Gideon asked how you were doing,” Sextus says because he knows when he’s won.

“She did not,” Harrow says immediately because she knows Nav and Nav would never ask about Harrow’s well-being in a million years because Nav hates her with the passion of a thousand suns.

“She asked if you’d gotten the stick surgically removed from your arse yet, which is basically the same thing,” Sextus says, and Mr. Bo—her _assistant_ actually chirps, which is definitely new and means the committee is escalating.

“I hate you,” Harrow says.

“You’re going to have to face her at some point, Harrow,” Sextus says, ignoring her. “I know you think you got Hogwarts in the divorce, but you’re colleagues now.”

Harrow doesn’t dignify this with a response because even if she did think that, they were never married or even informally affianced and thus this statement was a logical fallacy at best.

“Something to consider,” Sextus says, smiling, an implicit threat, and stands to leave.

“Assistant, come,” Harrow says, and it deigns to fly over and do its job. Spoiled creature. Sextus gives a sarcastic little wave that he learned when he was under Mercy’s command and finally departs the greenhouse.

Harrow looks at her assistant with narrowed eyes. “You embarrass yourself and therefore the honor and sanctity of our House.” Assistant chirps and rolls over onto its spine. Harrow sighs. “If you ever tell anyone about this, I will dismember you and never put you back together,” she says, her usual threat, before petting his nose with a gentleness that she had not known as a child and so had to learn—like a second language—as an adult.


	3. Chapter 3

Harrow had a plan, and the plan consisted of avoiding meals in the Great Hall for all perpetuity—or until she died, whichever came first—and also covertly watching Nav’s early morning quidditch practices for intelligence information. She thinks this plan is going very well until Sextus ambushes her in the hall with his new research that he won’t let her see until she eats breakfast with him.

“Were you going to the kitchens to eat?” Sextus says, piling food on her plate like she’s a child. She doesn’t make a face at him. That would be undignified.

Nav didn’t even seem to notice Harrow’s entrance, her attention wholly on Cytherea holding court with half a dozen professors, so clearly mesmerized that Nav accidentally sticks her elbow in the butter. Harrow hears Cytherea’s tinkling laugh and feels an intense and distressing feeling that she does not care to identify.

“…yes,” she says because she had when she remembered. Otherwise food merely appeared on her desk in her rooms, sometimes with rude notes regarding the specific caloric needs required to sustain human life.

Sextus raises his eyebrow at her. “It’s no wonder your immune system is so poor.”

Now Nav is literally flexing her biceps—butter still on her sleeve—for Cytherea, who is feeling her up with such a lack of shame that Harrow actually feels embarrassed for her.

“What he means to say is that you’re a hot mess,” Camilla says without looking up from where she’s editing her teaching syllabus.

Harrow is unperturbed by this because a certain amount of self-awareness has utility. “At minimum, I’m not Ianthe,” she says. Cytherea has stopped touching Nav, but her face is in close proximity to hers and Nav has turned completely red. Nav hasn’t even glanced toward Harrow’s part of the table.

“The fact that Ianthe is your metric for disaster explains so much about you,” Sextus says, placing an extremely thick stack of parchment on the table.

“If you science at the breakfast table again, you will regret it,” Camilla says, dire, because she had accidentally ingested an arm-growing potion instead of her pumpkin juice _one time_ and refuses to move past it. Harrow thinks it would be useful to have six arms.

“I just need to find my oncology notes with the pediatric addendums for Harrow,” Sextus protests but Camilla does not look convinced; the first few years Sextus and Harrow taught together had been an aggressive exercise in scholarly one-upmanship, although Sextus had purportedly found it “fun” and “invigorating” and Harrow had spent a not insignificant amount of time plotting his academic demise.

“I’ll synthesize your notes with mine and then we can start preliminary trials,” Harrow says, already reaching for the pages Sextus had set aside, but Sextus smacks her on the hand with a spoon.

“You have to eat at least ten bites before you can have this,” Sextus says and Harrow frowns because she thought she had been very clever in moving food around on her plate.

“She’s too busy being creepy about Nav,” Camilla says, smirking.

Harrow glares at her.

“Oh, you thought we didn’t notice,” Camilla observes. “Sometimes you’re surprisingly adorable.”

“Take that back,” Harrow orders.

“I shall not,” Camilla says.

Harrow turns Camilla’s pumpkin juice into worms, and Camilla serenely waves it back into juice.

“Anyway,” Sextus says pointedly, “I told you the tournament was the reason the other Lyctors were here.”

Harrow personally thought the Lyctors were here to emotionally torture the headmaster and the tournament was an official excuse. “Are you going to invite them to join your committee?” Harrow asks, droll.

“Cytherea has already expressed interest, but she frightens me on a deep spiritual level,” Sextus says, matter-of-fact.

“She’s an old hag,” Harrow says dismissively.

“The two are not mutually exclusive,” Sextus argues. “In fact, they are commonly correlated.”

“Correlation does not imply causation,” she says severely. Nav still eats like a starved pig—she’s been finished for ages, and Cytherea still has half her eggs.

“You are putting words in my mouth,” Sextus says, frowning. Cytherea offers to feed Nav a bite of her eggs with her fork, and Nav leans forward to eat it but then jerks back, yelping, because pumpkin juice has spilled in her lap. “Harrow, really?” he says, giving her a look.

Cytherea’s eggs are not finished, but Nav and Cytherea stand to leave anyway, still talking, strolling behind Camilla to the doors of the Great Hall. Harrow can’t hear what they’re saying over the noise of the students, but Nav—Nav is completely focused on Cytherea to the exclusion of all else, like Cytherea is the magnetic center of the universe, and Harrow can only be fortunate enough to have the sight of her back as she walks away.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to prepare for my class,” Harrow says coolly, reaching for Sextus’ notes, but he has already anticipated her and pushed them over to Camilla, who stuffs them down the front of her robe. Harrow internally sighs.

“Nine more bites, Nonagesimus,” Sextus says firmly.

“I’m not hungry,” Harrow says, mulish.

“Tough shit,” Sextus says. “You won’t do anyone any favors if you pass out in the middle of your potions lecture.”

“The children will laugh at you,” Camilla adds, which gets Harrow where she lives because her current activity of leisure is refining her skills in the fine art of horrifying her students.

Harrow eats under duress and considers the problem of Gideon Nav. Nav is a super-giant—hot, blinding, brilliant--while Harrow is the icy meteor flung into her orbit, locked in place by forces of gravity much greater than herself. It was easier to contend with her own innumerable transgressions against Nav—her incredible unworthiness of any of Nav’s kindness—when she wasn’t there and Harrow didn’t have to inwardly burn at the mere possibility of being able to touch her. Harrow knows she doesn’t deserve her notice—after everything Harrow had done, after everything her family had done—but she wants it anyway.

And if there is one thing Harrow knows about herself, it is that she has always been a selfish wretch.

#

Harrow lurks in the Training Tower at six in the morning, ostensibly grading exceedingly mediocre potions essays in a windowed alcove, but actually observing Nav put herself through her quidditch paces, or whatever it is beaters do to practice. Nav is a speck on the glowing horizon, diving from great heights and looping in lazy circles. Harrow hasn’t seen her fly since they were in school, and she is—magnificent.

The last time Harrow saw Nav was in hospital at the end of the war. Harrow had slept on a tiny cot in Nav’s room for weeks while they waited to see if Nav would regain consciousness. Nav was the most still and fragile Harrow had ever seen her, which had been deeply—unsettling, because Nav had always been the unassailable wall that Harrow constantly tried to break herself against. Of course it was when Abigail was finally successful in press-ganging Harrow into a shower that Nav woke up, so Harrow returned to Nav surrounded by people and saying to Magnus, “Yeah, Camilla said I could stay with her and Sexpal after they let me out of here.”

Harrow had blinked rapidly, winded, never feeling so stupid in her life, because she had actually—she hadn’t even thought about it at all, she had just assumed Nav would stay with her to recover. “I’m sure that will take some time, considering you are currently bleeding through your bandages,” Magnus said dryly.

“Ah, fuck,” Nav said, pouting at her stomach like if she looked pathetic enough, it would decide to heal on its own.

Of course Nav wouldn’t want to stay with her, why would she, Harrow had stolen the entirety of her life, what right did Harrow have to ask for _more_?

Now Harrow watches Nav chase birds and hang off her broom by her knees like an idiot, and she feels—she feels—

“Oh, spying, are we? Tut, tut, tut. Naughty, naughty, you’ll get caughty!” Peeves chortles, juggling a stack of water balloons.

Harrow jerks, hisses, “Peeves! I _will_ send you whence you came.”

Peeves actually pauses, which is evidence of the time when Harrow locked him a box for a week after he deliberately spilled ink on the only copy of her research notes for a pediatric lycanthropy potion. “Unfair, unfair!” he cries.

Harrow is unimpressed. “I’ll tell the headmaster you broke into storage again.” Peeves looks shifty, and before his miniscule capacity for impulse-control can expire, Harrow jerks her head toward Nav—who is now doing something egregious to a dozen eggs with her bat. “If you must act out, I spy your counterpart in childishness.”

Peeves cackles, and Harrow waves her hand so the water balloon Peeves lobs at her bursts on the wall instead of her head. Peeves blows a raspberry. “You’re no fun,” he says, disapproving, before zooming toward Nav to pelt water balloons at her.

Nav is so loud, Harrow can hear it from the alcove. “Peeves, I will fuck you the fuck up,” Nav yells as she dodges water balloons like bludgers, and then says something so incendiary about Peeves’ mother—and Harrow isn’t even sure Peeves has a mother—that Peeves actually gasps, dumps the rest of the water balloons on her head, and skyrockets toward the headmaster’s tower.

Harrow raises her eyebrows, impressed against her will, when a voice says, “Hey, I want to think better of the idea that you sent Peeves after me, but I don’t think I can because there is a giant water stain on the wall next to you.”

Harrow blinks because Nav is hovering outside the window on her broom, arms crossed, a frown on her face that is so painful in its familiarity that Harrow feels airless and foolish with longing.

“Hello? Anyone home?” Nav knocks against Harrow’s head with a gentle fist, and Harrow reflexively knocks it away. Nav is close enough that Harrow can smell her cologne—sage, woody, a hint of citrus—the same one she’s worn since sixth year, and Harrow feels flushed, her insides hot, melting like that wicked witch in the muggle film Nav had been obsessed with at six years old.

“Isn’t it possible that I’m just another victim of Peeves’ stupidity?” Harrow says.

Nav narrows her eyes. “No,” she says.

Harrow shrugs. “You got me,” she says.

Nav snorts. “Not even gonna try to deny it, huh,” she says.

“What would be the point?” Harrow says.

“To get on my good side?” Nav suggests.

“I wasn’t aware it was possible for me to be on your good side,” she says immediately, too earnest, when Nav is never serious about anything.

Nav looks both embarrassed for her and also like she wants to laugh. “We fought a war together,” she says. “I think that raises my opinion of you by at least a couple percent.”

“But two percent from what number?” Harrow counters.

“Zero,” Nav says, grinning.

“I can work with two percent,” Harrow says, serious, because she would have thought Nav’s opinion of her would be deep in the negatives.

“Oh, can you?” Nav says, eyes sparking with mischief, her back limned with the golden light of the rising sun.

“I just said—” Harrow starts to say, frowning, when Nav takes one of Peeves’ water balloons from her robe pocket and unceremoniously drops it on Harrow’s head.

Harrow gapes, cold water dripping uncomfortably into the neck of her robe.

Nav cackles. “Hasta la vista, baby,” she says and then flies off before Harrow can even raise her wand to lightly hex her, which is probably the point.

Harrow wants to feel incensed but primarily she feels like someone has carved out the top half of her brain, leaving only the primal structures of the limbic system, the amygdala, the brain stem—hot little pulses of emotion that travel from stomach to heart to brain, all of those soft and mushy organs that she had always considered beneath her in her studies as a child. Harrow has been starving herself of Gideon Nav for ten years in order to atone, and she feels shocked—embarrassingly breathless, nervous system over-firing.

“You’re dripping water on the floor,” Damara Dodderidge says from her portrait, leaning her elbows on the bottom of her frame and looking inappropriately curious. “Get it together, girl.”

“Oh, shut up,” Harrow says, but her heart’s not in it.

“You know, I had a bet with Gifford on the two of you when you were in school,” Damara says, thoughtful. “But you always made such an arse out of yourself—"

“It’s vulgar to bet on students,” Harrow tells her and Damara does not look even remotely abashed.

“Then do you think the headmaster is sleeping with Mercy AND Augustine, or just Augustine?” Damara says seriously. “Gifford says he saw—”

"Goodbye," Harrow says, alarmed, and strategically retreats to her rooms where no one can scar her for life.

Anyway, she can be as weak as she wants in the privacy of her rooms--she allows herself a single smile over the rim of a steaming hot cup of tea.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the huge delay! this chapter had to be re-written. CW at end of chapter

Durmstrang Institute and the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic arrive on the first of October for the Achtwizard Tournament—which means the welcome feast that night heavily involves Jeannemary Chatur hanging off Nav’s every word and occasionally her biceps while Isaac Tettares rolls his eyes into his food.

“I seem to recall that Chatur has been an adult for at least several years now,” Harrow says, stabbing at her beef stew. “She should display some dignity.”

Camilla lifts a highly judgmental eyebrow.

Sextus laughs hard enough that he accidentally turns his goblet of water to wine. “As opposed to negotiating bites of food at the breakfast table like a child,” he suggests and sips his wine. “Oh, that’s very nice, would you like to try some, Cam?”

Harrow is stopped from enacting vicious revenge by the headmaster unveiling the Goblet of Fire with a wave of his wand.

“I thought that was a goat,” one of the Durmstrang students mutters, and the boy sitting next to him punches his shoulder.

“Why would they have a _goat_ in the _Great Hall_?” 

“For sacrificial purposes,” the first boy protests and then considers further. “Or as an emotional support animal.”

Harrow stares at Sextus with all of the despair she feels because she can’t believe these are the idiots who might represent their school in the Achtwizard Tournament. Sextus whispers, serious, “You might want to consider an emotional support animal, considering—ow, Harrow, you brute.”

Harrow’s knuckles really heart from punching Sextus in the shoulder, but she has to admit, it’s as satisfying as it had looked.

“—events that took place in the previous tournament, we will have a contingent of Aurors stationed at every task for reasons of security,” the headmaster says, nodding at Deutoros and Dyas lurking in the back of the Great Hall under Mercy’s eagle-eye. Mercy bitched so constantly about the Aurors under her command that Harrow had once suggested she resign, and it had taken several hours for the headmaster to find Harrow glued to his desk. “Every single student’s name has already been submitted to the Goblet of Fire. When its fire turns red, the Goblet of Fire will eject the names of sixteen students that it has denoted as most worthy, regardless of school or age.”

Harrow notices that he does not reference the previous tournament in which the majority of the chosen students were from Hogwarts.

“The Goblet will expel two names at a time—cavalier first and then necromancer. Ah, I think it’s ready to—”

The Goblet of Fire spits two slips of paper in a rush of red flame, and the papers flutter gently into the headmaster’s hands. “The first called are Jeannemary Chatur and Isaac Tettares,” the headmaster announces and the Beauxbatons students cheer while Chatur—reluctantly removing herself from Nav—and Tettares stride to the front.

“I thought they graduated,” Harrow murmurs.

“Well, they went into the Auror program after the last tournament,” Camilla says, looking at Chatur and Tettares with an unreadable look on her face; she would know, considering she had also been immediately recruited by the Aurors. Two years later, Camilla arrived at Hogwarts to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts and had looked so deeply wrecked that Harrow hadn’t wanted to touch that with dragon-hide gloves—except Camilla decided Harrow was her new project and drop-kicked Harrow into a shower so many times that she had finally been sufficiently humiliated into calling Camilla by her first name.

“But now they want higher status positions in the Ministry of Magic, so they were told they had finish school first,” Sextus adds.

“Fourteen-year-olds are apparently good enough for cannon fodder but god forbid they promote a highly-decorated adult,” Camilla says tightly, and Sextus grips her wrist under the table.

“You’re so up-to-date on the children, Sextus,” Harrow says, dry.

“Jeannemary keeps in touch with Gideon,” Sextus says innocently.

“Of course she does,” Harrow grumbles and is not warmed at all to see Camilla’s tiny smirk.

As the headmaster calls the rest of the students who have been chosen to participate in the Achtwizard Tournament, Harrow occupies herself by slowly turning Nav’s beef stew into brussel sprouts—the thing is, Nav just looks so _betrayed_ every single time she takes a bite and then it’s brussel sprouts. It’s very good for Harrow on a spiritual level.

“Congratulations to our chosen participants!” the headmaster says with a shower of blue sparks from his wand that land nearer to Harrow than trajectory should indicate; she glares and the headmaster ignores her. “Dessert will now be served.”

A folded piece of parchment paper floats into Harrow’s untouched pumpkin juice, and it reads in Ianthe’s handwriting:

_Do you like Nav, check:_

_Yes_

_No_

_I’m an utter embarrassment to watch_

_P.S. Multiple answers encouraged to further inform betting pool entry_

Harrow frowns and looks across the Hall to Ianthe, who smirks and wiggles her fingers in a sarcastic little wave. Fuck Mercy being in command, honestly. Harrow holds the note up and pointedly burns it with a little wiggle of her own fingers.

Ianthe gives a little Gallic shrug, disturbing Coronabeth who is propped against her shoulder. Coronabeth had arrived with Beauxbatons in an abstruse role involving Third House politics and then—as usual—immediately latched onto Ianthe, the only context in which Coronabeth showed even a shade of who she used to be before the tournament. Pale, withdrawn, thin—it was like Ianthe and Coronabeth had switched places, Ianthe leaching all of Coronabeth’s dynamism and physical vigor for herself, leaving Coronabeth empty and emotionally ill.

As far as Harrow is concerned, the worst part is that Coronabeth doesn’t even seem to care.

Silas occupies Ianthe’s other side, a smugly pious look on his face—he teaches something dreadful at Durmstrang, Harrow can’t be bothered to remember what—and to Harrow’s surprise, Colum is absent. Cytherea sits next to Silas instead, and she turns her head to wink at Harrow before pressing a pale blue handkerchief to her lips and coughing delicately. Harrow frowns and returns her attention to Nav’s plate, which already contains the remains of her eviscerated dessert. Nav has moved on to Cytherea’s plate, cheerfully shoveling chocolate cake into her mouth and talking at the same time.

Harrow seethes. Again. More.

“You know what’s interesting,” Sextus says conversationally. “The koala bear’s teeth wear down over time, which decreases chewing efficiency, therefore leading to their eventual death of starvation.”

Harrow stares at him. “That’s not interesting at all.”

“That’s because it’s really a metaphor,” Sextus informs her. “About you. In case I wasn’t clear.”

“Surely there’s a non-profit organization devoted solely to the production of koala bear dentures,” Harrow says, straight-faced.

Camilla snorts.

Sextus has opened his mouth to probably say something horrifying when another note lands in Harrow’s pumpkin juice, and Harrow snatches it before Sextus can.

_Nav just invited Her Royal Blondeness to her evening sword practice for the second year dueling club—or is that “sword” practice? In any case, how jealous are you on a scale of 0-10? Again, honesty is essential for betting pool purposes._

_Xoxo_

_p.s. Or would it be sword “practice”?_

“Those poor koalas,” Sextus says, wistful.

“Oh, shut up,” Harrow says, crumpling the note in her fist.

“You know Ianthe’s just fucking with you,” Camilla says mildly.

“Of course she is,” Harrow snaps.

“And it’s working,” Sextus observes.

“No one informed me that Cytherea is one of the second year dueling instructors this year,” Harrow says coolly.

“Maybe you should stop skiving off faculty meetings then,” Camilla suggests.

“Nav is apparently her partner,” Harrow says, glaring.

“Ah,” Camilla says.

“ _Camilla_ ,” Harrow says, gritting her teeth, shoving down on the well of hurt in her stomach.

“I thought you didn’t care about Nav,” Sextus points out, waving a hand so that Harrow’s pumpkin juice turns to wine.

“She’s _my_ cavalier,” Harrow says, reflexive, and then bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood because what right did she have to be—to experience distress at Nav pairing off with Cytherea? Sextus looks at her with an unbearable sympathy while Camilla does her the favor of pretending not to notice Harrow’s impending emotional meltdown.

“Was,” Harrow says and then swallows half the wine in her goblet to cover the break in her voice. “She was my cavalier. She’s free to do whatever she likes now, of course.”

Sextus and Camilla exchange a meaningful look that Harrow refuses to interpret.

“Oh, look, Ianthe’s food has turned into spiders,” Harrow says to distract them, and the two of them turn simultaneously to watch like cats as everyone backs away from the table except for Ianthe, who sits surrounded by spiders. Ianthe looks at Harrow and flips her the bird.

“I cannot believe this!! When I find out who is responsible for these spiders!! I will—” Mercy turns toward the headmaster so the rest can't be heard, which is vastly disappointing for Harrow.

“Poor Mercymorn is collateral damage,” Sextus says, cheerful. When Mercy finally discovered Sextus’ illicit tarantulas during the war, he had sent Harrow daily letters for weeks about Mercy’s terrible and innovative punishments.

Harrow shrugs.

“Sometimes I wonder what being that old does to your brain,” Sextus continues because he’s made several conversational jumps in his mind without telling anyone, as usual. Harrow opens her mouth, and he adds, “I already tried asking her for brain scans.”

“The brain scan of a Lyctor would be interesting,” Harrow says, thoughtful. “You could ask Ianthe.”

“Both of you have the self-preservations instincts of lemmings,” Camilla says.

“Hey, I’m better than Harrow,” Sextus says, offended. “I would never ask Ianthe for anything. I don’t know how Harrow survived being in the same dormitory as her.”

Harrow and Ianthe _had_ nearly killed each other multiple times growing up because they had been rivals, yes, but Ianthe had also been one of the few students in the entire school that could even begin to keep up with Harrow. How many times had Nav carried Harrow to the healer when Ianthe stabbed her in the back after creating something marvelous together? Harrow had felt unreasonably betrayed when Ianthe—well, when Ianthe _ate_ Naberius Tern at the end of the last Achtwizard Tournament, consuming him whole without remorse like a snake, except at least snakes ate to live. Ianthe had no limits.

“Don’t defend her,” Sextus warns when Harrow opens her mouth.

“Stop doing that,” she says instead.

“Then stop being so easy to read,” Sextus tells her.

“Harrow’s always been an open book, hasn’t she,” Ianthe says, suddenly behind Camilla. Harrow observes the way Camilla tenses, hand reflexively going to her wand. “After all, she only has three feelings in her entire emotional repertoire.”

“That’s three more than you,” Harrow notes.

Ianthe shrugs. “Boo, you got me,” she says.

“What do you want, Ianthe,” Sextus says, sounding tired.

“The headmaster left—ah—a few things out about the last Achtwizard Tournament, didn’t he,” Ianthe says, widening her eyes in faux surprise.

“What would be the point in dredging that up again in front of all the kids,” Sextus says, his voice flat.

“They should know what they’re getting into,” Ianthe says, smirking. “Shouldn’t they?”

“I cannot believe the headmaster is letting you work on the first task,” Sextus says in disgust.

“That’s what _I_ said,” Nav says from behind Harrow, and Harrow feels her heartbeat veer wildly. “But no, God’s gotta God.”

Harrow stares at her. “What does that even mean?” she says because Nav is ridiculous.

“It means that as usual, the headmaster’s gotta be all mysterious and useless and shit,” Nav says, waving a hand.

“It’s not like Tom Riddle’s going to pop out of the woodwork again,” Sextus points out.

“Not Tom Riddle,” Nav says, pointedly looking at Ianthe.

Ianthe fake laughs and raises her hands. “So suspicious,” she says lightly. “You sound like Harrow.”

Nav looks at her grimly. “Tell me I don’t have reason to be,” she invites.

“Frankly, any of us could have been Tom Riddle,” Ianthe says and then looks at Harrow. “Well. Maybe not _any_ of us.”

Because Ianthe knows about the Ninth House, because she’s brilliant and ruthless and figured it out by herself a long time ago. Harrow feels heavy and nauseous and she can hear a low buzzing in her ears—everything seems over-saturated and stilted, like she’s stumbled into one of those stop-motion films Nav loved. It’s like being on a different plane of reality: everyone is arguing now, but the audio is weirdly spliced because she can’t understand what anyone is saying and sometimes there’s sound but no one’s mouth is moving.

Harrow can’t recall the last time this happened. She stands and Nav is saying something to her, but she can’t distinguish the words. “I’m going to the baths,” Harrow says in such a low voice that she can’t hear herself and then leaves before her magic can start getting out of control.

Harrow makes the long walk to the professors’ baths on the sixth floor, and the silence of the corridors is soothing to her over-worked nervous system. The baths are empty, of course, but she still feels over-exposed and chooses the smallest bath in the corner. When she was a child, it was cold saltwater; but in the intervening years, Harrow has gone soft and she wants hot water and bath oils that smell good. Harrow feels disgraceful tears prick at the back of her eyes, and she can hardly see when she turns the faucet on and steaming water starts to fill the tub. She smells all the bath oils to find sage and wood and citrus and then plays with the foam faucets until foam is leaking over the sides of the tub.

Harrow strips and then steps down into the tub. The foam is cool and soft and the water is hot and grounding. Harrow feels small and childish and weak; she feels the deep and nauseating shame that lives in the marrow of her bones, that makes up the base of who she is. She was born an abomination and sometimes she can hide it or pretend it isn’t there, but it will never go away and she has to live inside of it until she dies. She wants to vomit, but her insides feel hardened and desiccated. 

Harrow inhales and sinks beneath the hot water and thinks about Tom Riddle instead. Tom Riddle, who had become a Lyctor against his cavalier’s will in 1920 and then kept going. Tom Riddle, who kept eating souls before taking a special interest in saying fuck you to the headmaster via the Achtwizard Tournament. Harrow had thought about it many times, and she didn’t see how she was any different than Tom Riddle. In fact, Harrow thought she was worse. Tom Riddle had eaten six people, in the end, but Harrow had consumed two hundred children, an entire generation, and she didn’t think there was any comparison.

Harrow stands, hair in her eyes before she shoves it back, her head cold in the open air. There is no reconciling any of it, really—Harrow is a monstrosity, and she doesn’t deserve to live but here she is doing it anyway. She just hadn’t expected Ianthe to bring it up—and in front of Nav—that’s all.

Harrow picks a shampoo at random and sniffs it—rosemary—and washes her hair. She hates being reminded that she has a body—her throat feels blocked, microscopic pinpricks of anxiety in her chest and esophagus, the heavy stone weight of dread and grief and fury sitting in the pit of her stomach. Harrow submerges herself again.

She doesn’t remember how she felt as a child, but she doesn’t think it was like this.

#

October is excessively hot and allergenic, which is how Harrow finally finds herself getting busted for being a creep at the top of the Turris Magnus tower.

“So this is where you’ve been getting off to,” Camilla observes. Harrow continues to hack up her lungs. “You do realise that it’s six in the morning.”

Harrow straightens. “It’s quiet,” Harrow tries, even though she knows that Camilla is a tediously thorough Auror and as such, already knows what she would find.

Camilla makes a show of leaning over Harrow’s shoulder to look out the window, and Harrow considers biting her. “Oh, I see, we’re being weird about Gideon again,” she says. “Some more.”

“I was completing research,” Harrow says, just to see what Camilla will say, not even bothering to hide her large collection of potion-filled water balloons.

“Yeah, regarding Gideon’s whereabouts,” Camilla says.

Harrow raises an eyebrow. “Oh no, you caught me, whatever shall I do.”

“Accept the pre-intervention that’s about to happen,” Camilla suggests, which is when Harrow fully registers that this was a planned ambush. “You are actually so much work, Harrow.”

“No one’s holding a wand to your head,” Harrow says, sharp, but Camilla ignores her.

“Let’s see: you don’t let anyone worry about your health to your face, you refuse to acknowledge the tournament in any way, and we haven’t seen you in the Great Hall in weeks,” Camilla says, counting on her fingers. “So really, all you’ve left us to talk about is the childish harassment you’re inflicting on Gideon.”

“It’s not _childish_ ,” Harrow says, her face burning underneath her face paint. “You’re the one who won’t let me attend your silly dueling club.”

“Tell me the rationale, and I’ll consider it,” Camilla says.

“You know why, you just want to make me say it,” Harrow says.

“Because you think that you can escape your appalling emotional baggage by beating the shit out of Gideon?” Camilla suggests.

“…no,” Harrow says finally. “No, I don’t think that’s it.”

“Have it your way, then,” Camilla says and squints out the window where Gideon has flown directly into the light of the rising sun. “Let’s begin Operation: Pre-Intervention,” –here, Camilla checks index cards from inside her cloak—"with discussing the fact that Gideon’s hair is actively sparkling.”

“It’s also blue,” Harrow says, rebellious. She’s spent weeks testing different dyes and inks—among other potions—on Nav during her early morning practices. Once she actually managed to temporarily turn Nav into a potoo bird for an hour, which Harrow felt was a red-letter day.

“Charming,” Camilla says, leaning against the wall and crossing her arms. “Look, Harrow, we’re not idiots. In case you forgot, we _also_ went to school with you, which means we also watched you antagonize Gideon for seven years. You’ve toned it down this time, but it’s still the same shit.”

This is the most Harrow thinks she’s ever heard Camilla say at once. “Did Sextus bully you into memorizing all of this?” Harrow says.

“Aurors do have to testify in court, you know,” Camilla says mildly. Harrow raises an eyebrow. “That being said, yes, Palamedes was called into St. Mungus’ for an emergency so he regretfully could not join this pre-intervention.”

“An RSVP-only event, I’m sure,” Harrow says.

“You’re lucky Palamedes wanted to start with a pre-intervention and not couples’ counseling,” Camilla says, and Harrow considers throwing herself out the window. “In any case, Palamedes has coded and graphed your Gideon-related behaviors from ages 11-18 and has concluded it is best to squash this conflict now before you drive Gideon away and do irreparable damage to your social circle.”

“Can I see the graphs?” Harrow asks.

“No,” Camilla says.

Harrow frowns. “Rude,” she says.

“I know you are, but what am I,” Camilla says.

Harrow can admit when she’s been verbally defeated.

“Anyway, you’ve got to stop running Gideon off her practice spots,” Camilla says. “She’s started to complain at the staff meetings.”

“She’s talking about me?” Harrow says, watching Nav dive into a loop.

Camilla rolls her eyes. “Stop being pleased, Gideon’s not happy.”

Harrow feels the tiny warm glow in the pit of her stomach—caused by the idea that Nav has noticed her—immediately expire, which is a relief because the intent was never to make Nav happy. After the welcome-feast, Harrow thought she would feel better if she slept; then she thought she’d feel better if she gardened; then she thought if she worked harder, more, and then, and then—but instead, Harrow’s felt consumed by a relentless fury that is slowly driving her into the ground, and she’s exhausted, strung-out. It must be how she felt at seventeen years old, laboriously completing each Achtwizard task with Nav, but when she thinks about seventh year, she feels nothing.

“I’m sure Cytherea will kiss it better,” Harrow says bitterly.

“You do know Gideon and Cytherea are part of the group working on the first task, don’t you?” Camilla says, raising her eyebrows.

“Of course I do,” Harrow lies.

“And are you attending the first task?” Camilla says

“No,” Harrow says shortly.

“Are you at least attending the Halloween Feast?” Camilla says.

Harrow feels it is disgustingly precious to hold the first task of a necromancer tournament on Halloween, but no one solicited her opinion. “Do you enjoy making me repeat myself when you already know the answers?” Harrow says.

“Yes,” Camilla says, bland, and Harrow glares at her.

“You must have been a scintillating conversationalist during interrogations,” Harrow says.

“I do enjoy the way people lash out when feeling emotionally cornered,” Camilla admits. 

Harrow calculates the odds of successfully being able to hit Camilla with a potion-filled water balloon: vanishingly small due to Harrow’s arms having the strength and speed of boiled noodles. “Well, is this pre-intervention complete or do I have to fill out a series of mood questionnaires,” she says.

“We decided against mood questionnaires due to your high levels of emotional avoidance,” Camilla says, and now Camilla’s just fucking with her because Harrow knows for a fact that Camilla dodged all of her Auror psych evals. “But yes, in conclusion, Palamedes’ proposal is that you pretend to be a normal human being and knock it the fuck off.”

Harrow stares at her.

Camilla sighs and kicks off the wall from where she had been leaning in such a fluid and nonchalant way that Harrow is instantly jealous and then furiously represses said jealousy. “Or you know, continue what you’re doing. Whatever. I went through all twenty-seven of Palamedes’ index cards.”

“There’s no way you covered twenty-seven index cards’ worth of information,” Harrow says, reflexive.

“Palamedes vastly overestimates your maturity levels,” Camilla admits.

“I once saw you try to stomp Silas into the ground over a game of wizarding chess,” Harrow says. “I once saw Sextus take a significant number of illegal drugs and then almost single-handedly take down a Resurrection Beast.”

Camilla shrugs. “This is your pre-intervention, not ours. In fact, I was going to let you continue to slowly emotionally spiral, but Palamedes said no.”

“I am _not_ emotionally spiraling,” Harrow says.

Camilla looks at the mountain of water balloons filled with custom-made and newly invented potions. “Yeah, okay,” she says.

Harrow thinks of what Nav would say. “I came out to have a good time, and I’m honestly feeling so attacked right now,” Harrow says.

Camilla gives her a look like she’s throwing up a little in her mouth. “Here,” she says, throwing an index card at her. “That’s all I’ve got. Don’t call me when this inevitably ends in tears.” She thinks about this. “Gideon’s tears.”

Harrow reads the index card—Sextus’ hand-writing with small edits by Camilla—after Camilla has frog-marched her to breakfast and piled both their plates with food.

_Operation: ~~Save Harrow and also us from Harrow’s stupidity~~ This one is more accurate, C. Pre-intervention _

_19.2_

  1. _Frankly, it cannot be ignored that you have no conception of how your behavior affects other people. When considering incident 2A (see: index card 15.4) in conjunction with incident 5B (see: index card 17.1), it is clear that there is a behavioral pattern of not recognizing and/or not caring about others’ concern—in those specific cases, the headmaster’s concern._
  2. _When experiencing emotional upheaval—ratings on behavioral observation measures completed by Camilla and I Ianthe submitted a copy too, C. When will we be free of her. S. When we die. C.(ref. Figure 3)—it was found that you increase— (cont. on index card 19.3)_



Harrow tucks the index card inside her cloak to later secure it with the other notes Sextus and Camilla have left her over the years. She spoons chicken soup into her mouth that tastes like cardboard. Taking her feelings out on Nav, having Nav’s full attention—it’s always been hard to distinguish the difference. Nav isn’t at breakfast, which means she must be really pissed because she never misses a meal.

Harrow knows she has a real problem when this fact doesn’t bring any relief. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: canon-typical levels of violence, trauma, dysfunctional relationships and behavior, and poor emotional coping--but starting to really get into it in this chapter. also, harrow has a habit of eating less when stressed. if you need anything else tagged, just let me know!


End file.
